User blog:Squibstress/Epithalamium - Chapter 53
Title: Epithalamium Author: Squibstress Rating: MA Genre: Drama, romance Warning/s: Explicit sexual situations; teacher-student relationship (of-age); language, violence Published: 23/05/2017 Disclaimer: All characters, settings and other elements from the Harry Potter franchise belong to J. K. Rowling. Chapter Fifty-Three "I like to think we're friends, Albus, but if you looked at me the way you look at her, I'm afraid I'd have to hex you." "Voldemort's gone." Alastor took a swig of his Butterbeer and set it back on the table with a crack. "Thanks for the drink, Dumbledore. Hits the spot." "What do you mean, he's gone?" Albus asked. "Gone. Vanished. Buggered off … gone. Riddle hasn't been seen in more than a week, and I found out this morning that Voldemort told his followers he was planning to go away for a while. Amelia Bones heard something—one of her recruits pulled that Carrow git back in yesterday on that Muggle-baiting case, and Bonesy decided to demonstrate some advanced interrogation techniques. He rolled over, I guess, admitted to torturing that kid and let slip something about 'when the Dark Lord comes back.' Meh," Alastor sneered, "'Dark Lord', my hairy Irish arse." "Did Carrow say where he'd gone?" "Nah. That's all she got out of him. Guess he's more scared of Voldemort than of Amelia Bones, hard as that is to believe. So I did a little more investigating. One of my contacts said his followers are pretty brassed off. Apparently, he went off without any notice and left that bastard Rufinus Lestrange in charge." "Did your contact have any information about how long he'd be gone?" "No. But my guess is that he's going to stay gone for a while. My contact said Nott's been selling off some of his stuff. I guess the 'Dark Lord' had some pretty fancy tastes. But Nott told him that he wasn't going to be selling again, and that can only be because he knows he's not going to have to support his lord and master. My contact said Nott seems pretty relieved to have him gone." Alastor snorted again. "I'll just bet he is. Too fecking late for his wife, though." "What do you mean?" "She died yesterday. In childbed. Baby died too." "I'm sorry to hear it." "Don't waste your pity on Sebastian Nott. Bloody eejit." "I'm sorry for Mrs Nott and their baby, who was innocent of any wickedness its parents might have done." "Yeah, that part's a shame," Alastor allowed, looking into his Butterbeer. "Kid deserved better parents. Anyway, you want me to get Bonesy to lean on Carrow some more? Find out what he knows about Voldemort's disappearance?" Albus considered for a few moments. "Is he likely to be released soon?" "Depends on what the Wizengamot does with his confession. Of course, you could have some influence over that." "I won't use my vote to hold the man longer than the case warrants. But based on what Amelia told you, do you think he's likely to be sent up?" "Well, he's dead-to-rights on the torture," said Alastor. "'Course, he confessed, and it's not 1945 anymore." Sentences for anti-Muggle activities had been particularly harsh in the aftermath of the Grindelwald war, but the Wizengamot traditionally treated crimes against Muggles with a light hand, particularly when nobody had been killed or permanently harmed and the victim or victims could be Obliviated. "No," said Albus, "it's not 1945. I think if Amelia could find a way to press Carrow for more information without getting the rest of MLE too interested, that would be to the good." "Right. I'll talk to her tonight." "Thank you. And thank Amelia for me." "I will." "Will you have another?" Albus asked, indicating the empty Butterbeer mug. "No," said Alastor, standing. "I'd better get back." As he was putting on his cloak, Alastor said, "If I don't see you before Christmas, congratulations." "For what?" "You and Minerva." Alastor was pretending to be searching for something in the pockets of his voluminous cloak. Albus was startled. "How did you know?" "Minerva told me. We did some sparring on Sunday morning." Alastor found what he had apparently been looking for and shook a cigarette from a crumpled pack. Keeping his eyes off Dumbledore's face, he pulled his wand and lit the cigarette with the tip of it. "So, like I said, best of luck to you. She's a grand girl." "Yes, she is." "Yeah, well," Alastor said, scratching his nose. "Anyway, she asked me to the wedding, but can you let her know thanks, but I'm busy Christmas Eve? Family … you know how it is." "Of course." It might not be a lie, Albus thought. Alastor's parents were dead, and he had no siblings, but Albus thought he remembered a cousin who'd been at Hogwarts a year or two after Alastor. He said, "Thank you for your good wishes." Moody gave a terse nod and stepped out the door. Albus sat gazing into his teacup and thinking. A few minutes later, as he walked the path from the gates back to the castle, Albus felt lighter than he had since the duel with Riddle. He didn't delude himself that Tom was gone for good; Riddle wasn't the kind of man to let things lie. But the fact that he'd apparently slunk off with his tail between his legs gave Albus some breathing room. He didn't have to move against him right away; he could wait and watch. See what Riddle's followers would do in his absence and keep his ear to the ground for news of the self-styled "Lord Voldemort". He could plan for Riddle's return. And he could marry Minerva. An hour later, as he sat at his desk reviewing the agenda Filius had made for the upcoming general staff meeting, a thought occurred to him, seemingly out of the blue. A magical bonding. He hadn't considered it before. His great-grandparents were, as far as he knew, the last of the Dumbledores to wed in that way, but it was still occasionally done in other of the older pure-blood families. The more contemporary outlook was that it was Dark Magic. Well, any spell that involved blood magic was generally frowned upon as Dark these days. But Albus was of the opinion that the Darkness came from the intention of the practitioners. True, the spell had most often been used to ensure fidelity and "pure" bloodlines, and, more distressingly, to shore up the magical power of a weaker wizard by harnessing it to the magic of a stronger witch—with tragic results in cases in which families had tried to use it to "force" magic into a Squib. But surely it could be used for good. It could be used to help protect the weaker member of the union. Minerva was not weak. She was as magically powerful as any mage he'd met, but she was not Albus's equal. Some bizarre accident of nature had bestowed on him what some—including Nicolas Flamel, who knew first-hand—considered the greatest magical gifts since Johann Faust. (Maybe since Merlin, some said, although Albus thought that terrible hyperbole.) True, Albus had worked harder than most mages to hone and refine his gifts and to broaden his knowledge, but the fact remained that his blood—or something in it—carried the raw seeds of his power, and without it, he wouldn't have been able to achieve what he had. Nor would he have survived the duel with Gellert. If he could share that with Minerva through the ritual and mutual intention of a magical bonding, it would make her that much safer once Riddle did return. If she worked at keeping her already-formidable duelling skills sharp and her mind as quick as it had always been, the addition of some of his magical power and protection might tip the scales in her favour, should it ever come to a direct confrontation between Minerva and Riddle. And if she were to fall victim to a curse—even a powerful one—the magical protection a blood-bonding could confer could save her from the most grievous effects. As to the drawbacks … the fidelity charm in the ritual could be left out, he thought. Not that he believed for a minute that it would be an issue between Minerva and himself, but he did not want to bind her in that way. She was a great deal younger than he, and there could come a time—far in the future, he hoped—when he would no longer be capable of making love to her. In that case, he thought (though it pained him), she should be free to seek that kind of relationship with someone else. The magical drain—that was more troubling. It was possible—even expected—that the bond would be uneven. That one partner would draw strength from the other. If that was the case, he could accept that he might lose some strength in order to fortify her magic. But if it went the other way? It was unlikely, but it had been known to happen. But surely there was a way to ensure that her magic would remain inviolate. Might he be able to direct the intent so that each partner would be strengthened by the other without any detrimental effects on either? Albus rose from his desk and ascended the spiral staircase to the Headmaster's library. He Levitated himself, holding on to the edges of the shelves to keep himself steady, so that he could skim the upper shelves where the more troublesome texts were kept. He found one book on blood magic and two on ancient rituals that he thought might contain additional information on the bonding ritual and its variations. He stayed up far too late reading through the texts, but none held exactly the information he was seeking. The following day, he passed the wards to Filius and went to Aberdeen to see Julian Meadowes. After Natasha had delivered the tea, the three drank it and exchanged chit-chat and news of Julian's progress. Julian told Albus that he would be seeing an American mediwizard who specialised in helping the blind learn to use charms to help them adapt to their disability. "I'm quite sure the fellow would never have agreed to take me on without Filius's friend's help," said Julian. "Do thank him for me." "I will," said Albus. "Filius was delighted to be able to help." "Are you still taking my classes?" "Yes." "You should probably advertise for a replacement. I don't think I'll be coming back." Natasha seized her husband's hand and brought it to her lips. "Don't say that, solnyshko moyo." "Well, not for a while," Julian added, kissing his wife's hand in return. "I plan to hire a temporary teacher for your classes. Until you are ready to return. On that note, I wonder if there is somewhere we might speak quietly so we will not have to bore your lovely wife with school-related matters," Albus said with a smile at Natasha. Taking the hint, Julian asked Natasha to excuse them, and he led Albus haltingly into a tiny study off the parlour. Albus helped Julian to find a chair and pulled up another beside it. "I was wondering, Julian, how much you know about magical bonding rituals." "Bonding rituals?" Julian made an obvious attempt to stifle his surprised chuckle. "I won't ask you why you're interested, but yes, I know a little something about them. Was there something in particular you'd like to know?" "Is there a way to ensure that the bonding doesn't result in a magical drain for either partner?" "Good question. Most scholars believe the traditional European rituals were intended to weaken one partner magically—generally the witch, of course. And empirical observation—what little there's been—suggests that, even when the intent isn't there, a drain occurs, usually from stronger to weaker, but not always. It depends upon how the ritual is performed, I think. There's are a few paragraphs about it in Secrets of the Darkest Art. The book has lots of information on blood magic. I haven't got a copy of it here—it's quite rare—but you'll find it in the Restricted Section. "Funny you should be asking about the bonding ritual. One of my mentors, Desmond Pritchard, recently wrote a paper for Theurgic Hypotheses on potential biological and genetic changes caused by it. His idea was that it's the reason we don't have as many witches of great power as in the past. I mean, where are your Circes, your Hecates, your Medeas? He thinks the systematic power drain, if you will, has actually affected the genetic makeup of European witches—pure-bloods, at any rate—over several centuries. It has to do with gene expression, he says—wait, let me see if I have a copy—" In his excitement, Julian stood and banged into the edge of the desk, emitting a yelp of pain. Albus winced in sympathy. "Bloody hell, that bloody hurts," Julian huffed, rubbing his bruised thigh. "The journal should be on that shelf just behind the desk. Have a look. You might find it interesting." As Albus scanned the shelf, Julian asked, "Did you find it?" "Yes." "Take it with you. I think Minerva would be interested. The biology bits are right up her alley." Albus Shrank the journal and put it in his robe pocket. "Thank you." "Has she consented to a magical bonding?" Julian asked. "Who?" "Minerva." "I'm not sure I follow you," Albus said a touch too quickly. "Maybe I've misread, but I've had the impression that you two were close." "Yes, we're friends, if that's what you mean." "I like to think we're friends, Albus, but if you looked at me the way you look at her, I'm afraid I'd have to hex you." Albus was ashamedly thankful at the moment that Julian couldn't see the smile that played involuntarily across his lips. "And how do I look at her?" "The same way I look at Natasha. Or used to." "I am sorry." "I know." After a moment, Julian added, "It's not your fault, you know, Albus. You advised caution, and you didn't order me to examine that necklace. I was intrigued, so I wanted to do it. And frankly, I'm not convinced it was the necklace. I ran every possible check on the thing, and there was nothing. Magic leaves traces, and magic strong enough to do this … I really don't think I could have missed it, even if I couldn't figure out exactly what the curse was." Albus said, "You may be right." But he didn't think so. Julian was as knowledgeable about Dark Magic as any wizard alive, but Albus was beginning to believe that Riddle had been all too honest when he'd said that he'd "pushed the boundaries of magic" beyond what most thought to be its limits. As Albus was leaving, Julian said with a grin, "Good luck with Minerva. And don't worry; I won't say a word to anyone. I'll even take a Fidelius Oath." "No need for that. But I do appreciate your discretion." When he returned to Hogwarts, Albus went immediately to the library's Restricted Section. He found Secrets of the Darkest Art in the section on Dark Magic, as expected, and took it to his office. There were several chapters on blood magic, and one of them contained a two-page section on bonding rituals. It detailed the way the ritual had been altered over the centuries to allow one partner to call upon the magical strength of the other. He was surprised to find that the oldest known version of the ritual called for a complicated charm that required the partners not only to exchange blood vows, but to make a blood sacrifice of animals thought to be the anima and animus of the bride and groom, each drinking the blood of the other's animal spirit. Minerva would never agree to that, he thought with a shudder. The practice had died out by the early 15th century, according to the book, and began to be replaced with a ritual designed to ensure that one partner reaped the most benefit from the bonding. Albus guessed that the Black Plague, which had killed Muggle and wizard in equally appalling numbers, had also been the death-knell for the older ritual. If he remembered correctly, Bathilda had told him that by the end of the 14th century, the plague had apparently mutated to become proportionately more lethal to young men. It was no wonder that around that time, the most powerful wizarding families were looking for ways to shore up the well-being of their male progeny. Albus didn't need any shoring-up, and while he didn't have any intention of suggesting the animal sacrifice to Minerva, he thought it likely they could use the other parts of the old-form ritual to perform a magical bonding that was relatively equal. If she'd agree to it, that was. He leafed through the book and found nothing further on bonding rituals, but he was surprised when he came to a section on Horcruxes. That the book mentioned them at all was unusual, but not unheard of. But it actually gave the incantation and information on forming the intent. Albus was not normally in favour of removing books from the library. There was little he felt was too dangerous for students to read, and the school's policy on restricted books helped ensure that the students who accessed them were mature and responsible enough to use them appropriately. But something about this spell in this book pricked at him. He'd see Madam Pince the next day, he decided, and let her know that he intended to remove it from circulation. Just for the moment, until he could put his finger on what was unsettling him about it. ~oOo~ "Absolutely not." "I understand your concern, Minerva, but I think if you just—" "No, Albus, it's absurd. I won't have it." She was shocked beyond words that he would even consider asking her to form a magical bond. Hadn't that kind of thing gone out with moon rites and ritual cleansings for menstruating witches? Minerva was damned if she'd join the likes of the Blacks and the Rosiers in undergoing some archaic, misogynistic marriage rite just because Albus had some ridiculous notion that it would protect her. He said, "I'm not suggesting a conventional bonding. We would alter it so that the fidelity charm isn't invoked." "And you think that's what I'm concerned about?" "No, but it's one of the changes I would make. The others would be to ensure it was equally binding. That neither of us would be harmed by it." "It doesn't matter, Albus. I just can't believe you'd ask me to consider it." "I thought it might help keep you—keep us both—safer." "From what?" "I have enemies, Minerva." "Gods, Albus, you're starting to sound like Alastor." He was silent, and she was afraid she'd hurt him with the remark. But when he spoke again, her anger flared anew. "If I can eliminate the risks and drawbacks—ensure that you won't suffer any magical drain, and that you would be free to … to be with someone else, if that's what you wanted—why would you not want to reap the benefits?" he asked. "Even if you could guarantee all that, I still want no part of it. It's just … it's just offensive, the idea that we should … belong to one another physically." "It isn't physical, it's magical." "It comes down to the same thing, though, doesn't it?" "Be rational," he said. "Just because it's been used to the detriment of witches in the—" "That's not the point. This is not some irrational, some feminine fit of vapours." "I didn't say that. You're letting your emotions get in the way of your thinking. You—" "Don't you dare, Albus Dumbledore!" She had shouted at him, and he was shocked. "I'm sorry, Minerva," he said. "Let's both take a few breaths and forget about this for the moment. Maybe we should—" But she was so upset, she refused to hear him out, and the chess board sat untouched as she stormed out of his quarters, changing into her feline form and racing towards the gates as fast as her four limbs could carry her. As the gates opened, she dashed out and found herself entangled in a pair of legs. She popped back into her human form, dismayed, as she realised she had tripped up Filius Flitwick, who had gone sprawling in the mud. She apologised and helped him up, using her wand to clean the mud from his cloak. "No harm done. And I daresay I'm as much to blame as you," Filius said. "To tell the truth, I think I've imbibed a bit too much of Macdougal's fine cloudberry wine. There's a new girl he's got in, and all the local lads were rather trying to impress her. Including me, I'm ashamed to say. Rose something or other. Pretty girl … I predict a definite upswing in the Broomsticks's business." He smiled wistfully for a moment, then shook his head. "I'd offer to see you home, Minerva, but frankly, I'm in no shape to Apparate. Or walk, for that matter …" He tipped his hat and began to weave his way down the path to the castle. If Minerva hadn't been so distressed, she would have reminded him to take a dose of hangover preventative before bed. She didn't sleep much that night. Why was Albus so obsessed with her safety? She understood that his proposal of marriage had been—at least in part—made out of a desire to keep her close, to keep her safe, and she couldn't really object to that. She felt the same about him. But it had been months since Tom Riddle had shown his ugly face, and Minerva reckoned he'd got what he wanted from her, at least for the moment. She'd been frightened of his threats, and he'd known it. Perhaps it hadn't been such a mistake to tell him about her engagement to Albus, after all. It apparently hadn't provoked him into going to the newspapers or the governors, and maybe it had frightened him a little. Separately, both Albus and Minerva were powerful, but together— Is that what this is about? A magical bonding to frighten Tom? But surely Albus wouldn't expect her to submit to a bonding just to frighten one would-be Dark wizard? Tom Riddle was powerful, but he was no Gellert Grindelwald. ~oOo~ Albus appeared at her kitchen door the next afternoon, carrying a small potted plant that bore a spray of tiny yellow flowers. Glynnie looked him up and down, saying nothing as she admitted him. Once the door was shut, she simply popped away without a word. "What is that?" came Minerva's voice as she entered the kitchen. Albus set the pot on the table. "It's rue. Herbert had some in one of the greenhouses. I thought it appropriate." They stood looking at one another across the table for a few moments, then he said, "Will you forgive me?" "Of course." "I never meant to—" "Let's not say any more about it. You asked, I responded. That's all." He went around the table to her and took her hands in his. "All right. The subject is closed." "Thank you," she said. "Have you eaten?" "No. I was plundering Herbert's greenhouse during the lunch hour." She smiled at that, and he relaxed a little. Crossing to the cold cupboard, she said, "There's some soup—cullen skink—it's good." She rummaged around and withdrew a small earthen pot. "There's bread there too," she said, pointing to the counter. "Glynnie made it fresh this morning." "That sounds fine, thank you." He sliced the bread as Minerva decanted the soup into a bowl and heated it with her wand. As they sat at the table, he said, "Aren't you eating?" "No. I had some tea at ten, and Glynnie practically forced me to eat a scone." "She takes good care of you." Albus tucked into the soup. Between bites, he said, "She's sent me to Coventry, I think." "I was a bit upset last night. And this morning I told her I wasn't certain if you would be coming today. She obviously drew some conclusions." "Perhaps I ought to have got a plant for her." He finished his lunch, and they spent the afternoon together, Minerva completing lesson plans and Albus catching up on some reading. When Minerva had finished her work, they played the game of chess they'd skipped the previous night, and Minerva won in record time. Over a dinner of roast chicken, potatoes, and green beans, Albus said, "How would you feel about a few days away after the wedding?" "A honeymoon?" "Yes. Assuming you still want to marry me." "As long as you promise never to let me win at chess again." "I never!" "Yes, you did, and you know it, Albus Dumbledore." "I was somewhat distracted," he said. "Your victory was completely earned. So, what about Italy?" "Italy sounds heavenly, but how will we ever manage it?" "I haven't taken anywhere near the holidays specified in my contract in I don't know how long," he said. "And Filius informs me that there are only a few students down to stay over Christmas, so my absence shouldn't prevent any of the Heads from having a proper holiday. Two at any given time should be perfectly sufficient to manage eight homesick teenagers." A smile blossomed on Minerva's face. "What did you have in mind?" "I thought a few days in Florence or Siena … maybe Venice. I was there ages ago, it seems, and I remember thinking what a romantic place it would have been had I only had someone to share it with." "It is terribly romantic," she said. "The last time I was there, I was with a very handsome wizard." "Oh, really?" Albus asked, wondering if she was about to tell him about a romantic holiday with McLaggen—or, Merlin forbid, Alastor Moody—as a sort of revenge for his having angered her so deeply the previous evening. When she added, "My father," he relaxed, chastising himself silently for believing she would be so petty. "Would you rather go somewhere else?" he asked. "No, Italy is perfect." "We'll need to stay in Muggle areas. I'm afraid I'm rather well known, even there." "Of course. I don't mind travelling à la Muggle." "Italy, then." After dinner, as Minerva stood at the sink rinsing the dinner dishes before Scourgifying them, she felt Albus's hands come around her waist and his lips at the back of her neck. "I am sorry about yesterday," he murmured in her ear. "I didn't think." She put down the dish she held and turned in his arms. "It's all right," she said and kissed him briefly. "Do you think the washing up can wait?" he said, moving his lips over her neck. "Yes." She normally didn't care much for making love during her monthlies, but she was afraid if she demurred, he'd believe she was still angry with him, so she let him lead her upstairs to the bedroom and excused herself to the loo to undress and cast a quick cleansing charm. They were tentative and careful with one another, and while it wasn't the most satisfying sex she'd ever had, it was sweet, and she felt more settled, happy to be at peace with her beloved. They slept together for a time, and he didn't leave until after midnight, kissing her gently and saying, "Sleep well, my love. I'll see you tomorrow." When he was gone, she got up and had a quick bath, then cast a cleansing charm on the sheets. As she lay back and tried to go to sleep, she wondered if she had been too hard on him. He had only wanted to protect her with the bonding; he clearly hadn't understood how repugnant the idea was to her. And rather than trying to help him to understand, she had gone to pieces. Still, she was glad he had dropped the idea. They were bound—emotionally, spiritually—by the love they had for one another. What need was there for a ritual that would intertwine their magic in unpredictable ways? Later, Minerva would look back at her attitude with a mixture of bitterness and amusement, but that was forty years in the future, after she had been bound to Albus Dumbledore in ways that were beyond anything she could have conceived in the waning days of 1957. ← Back to Chapter 52 On to Chapter 54→ Category:Chapters of Epithalamium